


Love Me Not

by PurellGoddess



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Worship, Dark, Fetish, Kissing, Lust, M/M, Obsession, moriarty is really not good, no love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:50:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurellGoddess/pseuds/PurellGoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty is a bad, bad man who has a certain fetish for a certain consulting detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Me Not

**Author's Note:**

> This work may be very triggering to some. Reader discretion is highly advised. Seriously, this fic is super dark.

He had a thing for hands. He had an intense desire for long, supplicating fingers to stroke up and down his body, touching, caressing and exploring all areas unknown. He had fantasies of a well-manicured hand dipping into his pocket, brushing against more than just his car keys. And more than anything, he had a thing for the long, pale, wonderfully graceful hands belonging to a certain consulting detective.  


The circumstances of his revelation of this lust for those digits running across his skin came about when he was at facing the barrel of the gun those elegant fingers were pointing ever so steadily at him. The buzz that ran down his spine when he focused on those beauties was more than just a quiver of fear-- it was a twinge of lust.  


From then on, he dreamed and hungered for those hands, and the wonderfully obvious man they belonged to. Oh, how fun he was to play with. It was marvelous seeing how that peculiar brain ticked and tocked, and how the gears clicked together so much slower than what he thought admirable. What he loved the most is how Sherlock's thoughts always travelled to his hands-- a minute twitch here, a slight tap there, all creating such a plain map of his train of thought.  


When he broke into Sherlock's flat and wandered around, aimlessly tipping things over and making the portraits just a bit crooked, he could see were each finger had been, how they had traversed that space, how they had rested just so on the mantel.  


Oh, and when Sherlock grasped that teacup handle, he thought he was going to simply burst! He was so preoccupied with those deft fingers and, oh, those lips! Did he mention the lips? Every time he saw those heart-shaped, plump lips that part ever so slightly when he was thinking deeply nearly transformed him into a blushing Southern belle.  


Anyway, he was so completely engrossed by those divine distractions that he practically forgot to provide that little distraction of his own. Sure, he tapped his fingers quite obviously, but he really thinking about they would feel tapping across those enticing lips, entering that pert mouth and how those bewitching moans would escape into the open air.  


The next time they met, he knew it would be their last. He also knew he would go out with a bang, be it figurative or literal. He didn't even glance back when Sherlock reached the roof, for his plan had not and would not fail. They talked, chatted, discussed how bleak the situation was, then got to the good stuff. He suggested Sherlock just get it over with, Sherlock stepped up, giggled and stepped back down, he screamed and wanted to know what he had missed, and Sherlock smugly stated that he could be saved. All according to plan. He agreed, said that as long as he was alive, Sherlock's friends could be as well. Then all hell broke loose.  


He ferociously attacked Sherlock's mouth with his own, biting and twisting and pushing and groaning. He slid his encroaching fingers onto Sherlock's shoulders, disposing his coat and displacing his balance.  


The detective was completely and utterly surprised by the sudden intrusion, and immediately stiffened like a board. However, he continued to push himself inside, ripping off clothing and licking his way in. After he managed to peel of Sherlock's trousers, clawing his way down the infinite porcelain of Sherlock's legs, Sherlock was able to push him off in a minute victory, only to be slammed to the roof by a pounce fueled by four years of pent up lust and desire. He once again found those now red and disobliging lips with his own and sucked all the way through the cries and screams. He snatched those lovely hands and held them down above Sherlock's delicious smelling locks. With Sherlock pinned underneath, he readied himself and danced his remaining free hand down the detective's bucking torso to finally come to rest just on his hipbone. The kicking intensified, as Sherlock's worst nightmares were starting to play out, but the kisser muddled on, a smile working onto his puckered and tiring lips.  


The clawing hands ripped off what was left of Sherlock's clothing and dignity, and he was pried open, body and soul, and forced to face the worst of life without any protection. With every shove, Sherlock fought less and with every renegade tear that squeezed through those clenched eyes, he smiled. He smiled at how his game had ended, how he had finally leaned all there was to know about the great Sherlock Holmes, and how he finally solved the mystery of what those tender lips would feel like being crushed. With the last arch into the shaking man beneath him, he validated just how victorious he was. He had won.  


With that momentary pause, Sherlock roared up onto him and wrapped those glorious fingers around his neck, squeezing out all the foul life that was still clinging onto his long-dead soul. He didn't even try to stop it. He never struggled, even as he felt the blood stop in his veins. He didn't fight, all because he relished in those fingers on his neck. Because he had a thing for hands.


End file.
